Not Even The Truth
by Who Shot AR
Summary: Mr. Nottinger came to accept that his beautiful young wife did not care to go out during the day. Set pre-series.


Based off a prompt from a friend, which went _Sometimes someone can mean so much to you, that not even the truth can change your mind._ Made for some fun writing on the subway for me! I hope it's enjoyable for you all, too.

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Not Even The Truth

Mr. Nottinger came to accept that his beautiful young wife did not care to go out during the day. It was no matter. While he'd been retired for more years than he cared to count, he was more than capable of filling his afternoons without the new Mrs. Nottinger by his side. He spent his time golfing especially, and catching up with old business acquaintances and what few of his classmates from Columbia were still living (and when he could combine the two, so much the better). When he came home, often with the sunset on his back, she would already be dressing for an evening out--and when they went out, she positively glowed on his arm. And when they chose to retire early from this or that little charity of hers, well! If declining lunch dates allowed her to save her energy for the bedroom, he had no complaints.

Mr. Nottinger had no trouble accepting that she had what his mother would have called the appetite of a bird. He suspected their cook despaired of her appetite, and he knew from overhearing a stray complaint to the housekeeper their last cook had felt the same--but then, there was a reason that one was their _former_ cook. He found it charming, himself, especially as she always had a polite word to say on the quality of the food. She might eat only a few bites and then discreetly excuse herself to the bathroom to down one of those vitamins she was always taking, but Mr. Nottinger swallowed more than a few pills himself these days. Sometimes he wondered idly if she spent her days filling up on chocolate bon bons while relaxing in the bathtub or some equally ridiculous feminine thing. But considering the svelte figure she cut, he didn't much care _what_ she was eating as long as she kept her shape.

He even came to accept that though her lips were soft, they had an iron firmness when it came to closing them. When she listened to you, he thought, there was something in her expression that made you want to tell her your life's story, and so he had done that. Had told her about his elder sister, who had died a year ago, and of his nephew's son (who one rather _had_ to warn others about, when Thanksgiving with the family was coming up, because that boy was something else). At first, he had tried to reciprocate, asked her questions about her family, where she'd come from, but after a few demurs from her and only rudimentary information about herself--no she had no siblings, no, she and her parents weren't in contact, and so on--he concluded that he could be satisfied with talking of the present with her. If the past was something she didn't care to dwell on, he could determine not to bring it up unnecessarily.

He did, on occasion, blunder, as when he asked her when she'd learned French after she ordered _salade de mesclun vinaigrette au champagne_ in a flawless accent at a restaurant. She smiled, lowered her violet eyes a moment, and then responded with a general comment about the fine decor of the place. Perhaps, he thought, her last husband (for him, she was willing to discuss on rare occasion, particularly if he inquired, but she spoke of him only kindly, which he liked) had enjoyed this particular air of mystery from her, and she had simply come into the habit of maintaining it. He didn't mind; he'd always been more of a talker than a listener anyway.

She had her foibles, but he could find a reasonable explanation for any oddness, and she made up for them with all her other qualities: her beauty, her intelligence, the way she could make him forget how many decades he had on her when they went to bed, it was more than enough to balance the odds. And so when his great-nephew (who, like he'd told his wife, was a real piece of work, and not a little unbalanced) confided to him that he suspected that Mrs. Nottinger wasn't quite right, the irony was not lost on him.

His proof for this crackpot vampire theory of his was absurd, for the most part--so she didn't eat much and she slept late. She checked her reflection in the mirror, didn't she? And one piece of it was infuriating; the last time they'd had him over for dinner, he'd turned a trip to the bathroom into a snooping opportunity. Shoving a small framed picture into his great-uncle's hand, he said triumphantly, "Seen this picture before?"

He glanced down at it. Some kind of antique, it was a picture of a woman and a little girl posed in that especially stiff way you saw in pictures from the turn of the century or before. "Where'd you get this?"

"Tell me that's not her sitting there, it looks just like her. She's a _vampire_. She's been alive longer than you have."

"_Where_ did you _get_ this?" Mr. Nottinger's patience was steadily disappearing.

"Box in your closet. Uncle Geor--"

He cut him off. "You went through her _things_?"

That was the last his nephew was going to see the inside of their apartment any time soon. Mr. Nottinger carefully returned the picture to what he thought must be the correct box and hoped he wouldn't have to bring up the fact that his flesh and blood had been pawing through her private belongings.

"You're _not_ a vampire, right, dear?" he'd asked after mentioning the kid's ridiculous pet theory (_sans_ old photograph) to his wife. He chuckled. A _vampire_.

She gave him a close-mouthed smile, and her eyes sparkled. "Surely I would have bitten you by now if that were the case."

And that night, as he fell asleep with a hand tangled in her long dark hair, he couldn't help but thinking that if this _was_ what being married to a vampire was--good one, Ted, a _vampire_--then he should've found himself one years ago.


End file.
